


The Half Life

by ElinorX



Series: The Margaret Coulson Series [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A prequel to Our Violet Delights, F/M, Gen, Guesthouse & GH 135, Post-Avengers (2012), Project TAHITI, Skye is a Coulson, What happened to Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElinorX/pseuds/ElinorX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At any given moment in time, Philip Coulson occupied one of two planes of existence, that of a solitary secret agent with a cellist lady friend from Portland, or that of a divorced, middle-aged father who still dreamt of the dark, haunted eyes of his ex-wife on a semi-regular basis. </p><p>During his life, he rarely discussed the former because it was personal, and never discussed the latter because it was classified. </p><p>Upon his death, however, certain truths come to light, while other secrets are simultaneously built and buried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

**Author's Note:**

> The 3 part short tells of Coulson's death, funeral, and surgery at Guesthouse, through the point of views of those closest to him: his daughter 'Skye', his girlfriend Audrey Nathans, and his ex-partner Melinda May.
> 
> A prequel to Our Violent Delights.

_Agent Coulson is down._

 

The truth is, she hadn’t noticed. Amidst the explosions and gunfire, and a 500 pound green rage monster crashing through the helicarrier, smashing everything like rolls of tin-foil, Skye had forgotten about her father. 

The engines were failing, the helicarrier was falling, things were on fire, people were on fire - 

The truth is, Skye was too busy trying to not get killed. Loki’s brain-washed minions were either single-minded or empty-minded, because they seemed to care for nothing but their assignment, not even their own lives. Fortunately for Loki’s minions and less fortunately for Skye, the agent who had an unhealthy obsession with Galaga didn’t know jack squat when it came to hand to hand combat. Plus, he was rubbish with a gun. How anyone let him onto the Helicarrier, Skye will never know, but that didn’t stop her from trying to protect him from getting turned into a block of French cheese by the onslaught of bullets raining down on them. 

Yet, even when it finally stopped, after Loki escaped, after Stark fixed the engine, and after both Thor and the Hulk got inevitably ejected from the “floating fortress”, there were still casualties to account for, stations to pick up on, and duties to attend to.

Skye had been manning four seats by herself (med bay took three of her best colleagues into treatment), so it came as no surprise that she hadn’t remembered to ask about Coulson. Because this is Coulson, the second greatest spy only after Bond (who is fictional), Coulson who could disarm a gang of thugs with a bag of flour, Coulson who would always be fine…

_Agent Coulson is down._

_A medical team is on their way over._

_They’re here…they called it._

When Fury made the announcement through the intercom, no one around Skye stopped to give her a second glance. Sure, many of them paused in their tasks for a brief moment of solemn respect, and some who knew Coulson squeezed their eyes shut and let out thick pants of air, but this was still war and they still had orders. People died. It was sad. But everyone needed to move on.  

And of the total thirty seven seconds the agents on the bridge allotted aside to mourn their fallen comrade, not one second was spared by any of them to pay mind to a young agent who had frozen solid in her seat.

Agent Skye, Level Three. A nobody of no relations to anyone. Least of all Agent Coulson. 

To her, everything had grown quiet, but the silence in her mind was deafening, and the heat of her anger could not chase away the ice in her veins. She couldn’t feel her toes, or her fingers on the keyboard; everything was just nothing, and every thought was but ghostly wisps and remnants swimming in the void behind her eyes.  

Her father is dead. 

Vaguely, Skye detects a slow set of footsteps coming towards her. "Agent Skye." 

Maria’s warm palm felt like a patch of scorching iron curling around her shoulder, and her voice, soft and low and meant to be consoling, drilled into the young agent’s nerves like a long thin nail straight down her spine. 

There was a paralyzing pain inside her like she never felt before, and in that moment, she swore she could have died. 

Leaning over, Maria called her name in a hushed voice so that no one would hear, “Daisy. Daisy, I am so -.”

 _Daisy. My best girl Daisy._ She couldn’t recall the last time her father even called her by that name. She was Skye now; Daisy Coulson was a thing of the past. Gone. Just like her father. 

"Agent Hill," Miraculously, Skye found her voice. It sounded rough, like she’d been screaming herself hoarse, but it didn’t waver the slightest. She learned that trick from her mother.

Oh dear god, her  _mom…_  

 _“_ I’ll be alright.” Skye reassured her godmother monotonously, flexing her fingers once, and got back to work. Maria looked as though she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. 

As Skye surveyed the scene around her, she thought to herself that she could survive this. Without the pitying glances and gossipy whispers, it made it easier for her to block out the distractions and focus on the task at hand. 

She thought herself strong. Tough. Unbreakable just like the Cavalry. 

But she was wrong. 

"Lost my one good eye." Nick Fury sighed, a while later, when the remainders of the barely cohesive ‘Avengers’ gathered in the bridge. They each bore a grimace of self-loathing and remorse as Fury scattered the stained vintage cards across the table.

Those were her father’s cards. He loved them! And now they were ruined. 

What’s it matter? A part of her argued. He’s dead. But it did matter. It still matters, and it will always matter. At least to her. 

From her vantage point behind a row of computers, Skye couldn’t see much, but she could hear the faint splatter as the cards landed against glass, and knew it was her father’s freshly spilled blood. 

That sickening, wet noise drove her over the edge, and in the chasm of her fall there was nothing but red. 

Had Hill not stepped in the minute she did, Skye would’ve screamed right there on the spot. 

"Agent Skye, Med Bay requests to see your head wound." Maria scooped one hand under her arm and lifted her from her seat. "Velasquez, take over here." 

Somewhere between the hanger and the bridge, she lost Maria. Or perhaps the older woman simply let her go, knowing she needed the space alone. 

Her feet, growing instincts of their own, carried her to the place where her father departed from this plane. It wasn’t difficult to find it; the crew said he died beside the cage that contained Loki, and the large smear of blood against the wall was evidence of Coulson’s bravery and loyalty. 

But Loki had gotten away, and Skye couldn’t help but feel cheated that her father’s legacy was to be nothing but a smudge on the wall. 

_Was he married?_

Rogers and Stark found their way there eventually too, out of guilt perhaps. 

She’d hidden herself in a corner, shielded from peeping eyes by the debris and bits of metal scraps. They never saw her, and she had no inclination to make herself known. 

Stark was an acquaintance of her Father’s at best - they weren’t friend, not really. And Captain America? Her father idolized the man, but the man hardly knew a thing about his most devoted fan.

And yet here they were, talking as if Phil had somehow meant something more to them during his life…

_No…There was a cellist, I think._

A cellist.

As if the only thing he left behind was a cellist… 

But yes, if the Earth managed to avoid enslavement by a psycho alien with daddy-issues, after all this is wrapped up, someone will inevitably go find Audrey. There will be a funeral, with white carnations, loud trumpets, and a folded flag. Fury might even be there…to give Audrey the flag.  

Not to her. Not to her mother.

Melinda’s personal life with Phil had been strictly confidential. On paper, they were never legally married. They never had a daughter, never shared a dream. Margaret “Daisy” Americus Coulson was a faction of a life that never was, and the person she became - Skye - is no more than the ghost of a fairy tale. 

Once, there’d been a little house in Wisconsin with burgundy walls and a large willow tree in the back, several yards from the waters of Lake Superior. In the spring of ‘95, her father had made her a tire-swing and painted it pink because she begged. 

The weed in the back grew rampant, because neither of her parents ever figured out what ‘gardening’ is supposed to be, and so every year when the summer came, there would be a field of wild daisies blooming beneath the willow tree. She loved that willow tree… and that tacky pink tire swing. For hours on end she had spent her afternoons there, giggling and twirling around and around. 

_Daisy, honey, you’re going to make yourself sick._

_No I won’t!_

The truth is, sometimes, on the wooden deck in front of the back kitchen door, when he thinks no one is looking, her father would wrap her mother in his arms and kiss her in the ecky way adults do…

 _Dad, we’re pals right?_ For her birthday, Phil had bought her Lion King on VHS, and she had since watched it a gazillion times and memorized all the lines.  _And we’ll always be together, right?_

In hindsight, that was so  _not_ a movie for kids. 

Fat drops of tears slipped through her lashes.  _We’ll always be together…right?_

_Is this the first time you’ve lost a soldier?_

_No_ , thought Skye, listening to their conversation.  _I already lost one to Bahrain._

_We are not soldiers!_

But he was. Coulson, he was. As much a soldier as he was a spy.

Skye was proud of her father, of the spy, the soldier, and the man that he had been, and only more proud was she to call herself his child. So she cried, lowering her head onto her knee and sobbed in silence, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, and her whole body shaking as she anguished over the loss of one who promised they’ll ‘always be together’. 

Phil Coulson was not married, and yes, there had been a cellist. This is true.

But it is also true that he was  _once_ married, and that he  _had_ a child, a daughter, who loved him and worshiped him as reverently as the cub in the movie worshiped his own father. A child, who was there on the helicarrier the day his heart was perforated, who sat in the shadows of the wreckage, just feet way from where Steve Rogers and Tony Stark made their peace, and mourned the man they will never know.

The man that no one knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally posted in tumblr, but I decided to continue it here and address the idea that I had about Phil calling out Melinda's name during his surgery at Guesthouse. Thank you for reading! :)


	2. The Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At any given moment in time, Philip Coulson occupied one of two planes of existence, that of a solitary secret agent with a cellist lady friend from Portland, or that of a divorced, middle-aged father who still dreamt of the dark, haunted eyes of his ex-wife on a semi-regular basis.
> 
> During his life, he rarely discussed the former because it was personal, and never discussed the latter because it was classified.
> 
> Upon his death, however, certain truths come to light, while other secrets are simultaneously built and buried.

_“Do you – do you think you’d like to get married. Someday?”_

She was the one that brought it up first, because let’s face it, she could  _definitely_ see herself be happy with a man like Phil Coulson. Her Aunt Prynne always complained that they didn’t make men like they used to anymore; chivalry was so dead that it was probably being drilled up as oil and used to line the pockets of politicians.

But Audrey had found herself a good man, a  _very_ good man, one that would’ve asked her father for permission (oh silly Phil), one that would’ve made her Aunt Prynne wish she was born a decade or two later, and one Audrey was more than happy to keep for the rest of her life.

The rest of her life still had a long way to go, but the rest of  _his_ , well…

Staring at the black varnished coffin – standard, proper, and non-descriptive befitting a man of the espionage profession – Audrey realized that  _this_ _was it_. All that they could’ve been, the life they could’ve led, soon all of it would be lying under six feet of dirt and sealed there forever by a slab of grey limestone.

  

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s okay. Forget it. It’s a dumb question. Forget I said anything.” 

He had taken her face in his hands, thumb brushings over her rosen cheeks, and kissed her until she forgot all her embarrassment. 

She always assumed that was his way of saying yes, but…

He never did give her an answer.

And now she’ll never know.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The moment she opened her door that rainy Saturday evening, she knew. There were two smartly dressed officers –  _agents_ in actuality, but there was no mistaking the soldierly air around them – standing on her front steps, and a dark van parked by the curb.

The first of the two was a blond man, mid to late thirties, appearing a bit worn around the edges, but given what had happened in New York, Audrey wasn’t too surprised. The shoulder of his leather jacket was damp with the rain, but the moisture around his eyes was something else. 

Standing beside him was a younger woman, with red hair curling at her nape, and more composure than her companion.

“Miss Nathans, my name is Natasha Romanoff, this is my partner Clint Barton.”

The woman did not announce her title or her affiliations, but she had said more than enough. Already, that sense of despair coiling in the pit of Audrey’s stomach tightened into a dead knot. When the white 6’ by 9’ envelope with the eagle insignia was handed to her by Agent Barton, she understood beyond any sliver of doubt the message he couldn’t form words to convey.

_With regrets._

The letter concluded. How adequately put.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Agent Romanoff.” The question had erupted from her mouth before she even gave it a second thought. “Do they know? His daughter, and – and her mother?”

Natasha swiveled around, “I beg your pardon?”

Whipping a glance back at Clint, who was already half way to the van, and seeing him equally agape, Natasha was hit with a nasty sensation she hasn’t felt since childhood - the horrid ambiguity between what she thought was real and what actually was.

_Our handler had a kid and an ex-wife, and I didn’t know! Did you know?!_

_Jeez Nat, no! Of course I didn’t!_

_We need answers from Fury._

_Damn right we do._

Phil Coulson was a spy through and through. Of course, _of cours_ e, even his secrets had secrets.    

Audrey stood on the front porch of her house, watching the van drive away, and waited, waited, and waited for the storm to pass, for the sun to return and chase away this piece of thundercloud.

The rain ceased, eventually, and wind stilled too, but by then it was far too late. The sun had long set past the Rockies, and the only source of light was the porch lamp flickering undecidedly.

She had meant to fix it herself, but her rehearsals had kept her busy, and Phil had said he was going to do it…

It was late May; the magnolia tree in her neighbour’s front yard is displaying the full glory of its inflorescence, but dear god, the night was cold.

 

* * *

 

 

“I should probably tell you, and I had been meaning to for a long time, I just –” He took a deep breath. “I have a daughter. She knows. About us.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t expected that, but of unforeseen surprises, this was hardly the worst thing. Given Phil’s age, it wasn’t exactly unreasonable either. “Uhm, where is she? What’s her name?”

A pause.

“It’s…it’s…”

 

_“From this day forth, you are no longer Margaret Coulson. Margaret Coulson is a hacker who stole her country’s military intelligence and leaked it for the world to see. Margaret Coulson is a traitor, a felon, and is spending the rest of her life in prison. You are not Margaret Coulson. So I ask you now, who are you?”_

_She was just a kid – on the cusp of turning sixteen – and she was terrified. Observing from behind the one way mirror, Phil couldn’t forgive himself as he watched his only child being forced into renouncing her family and her identity._

_“I did this to her.”_ _Beside him, Melinda’s face was ashen grey, and the laser-like stare she fixed at Talbot’s forehead seemed to drill through the fiberglass. Her fists were clenched tightly at her side, knuckles white._

“We both did,” _Phil replied, his voice hollow. He wanted to hold her hand, but he settled for putting it on her shoulder instead, and as much as he tried to not startle her, she still flinched at the contact._

_“I was selfish. I should’ve been there. I should’ve called.”_

_They should've done a lot of things, but neither of them did._

_“Can I – can I keep Daisy as my name?” Skye was tough, putting on that brave face for so many weeks, but by now, her mask was starting to crumble._

_“Is that what your mom and dad calls you?” Questioned the agent in charge, a mean looking officer from the Pentagon. Colonel Talbot._

_“Y-yeah.”_

_“Then no. I suggest you find something completely different. You should understand the gravity of your situation – the strings that are being pulled to get you released, it’s unprecedented.”_

_That was true. Usually in cases like hers, it was either prison or indefinite mandatory employment at the CIA – she would not be able to take a step outside of its perimeters. It was, in essence, a special type of detainment.  Kids like Daisy, full of guts and talent, were banks of untapped human potential that the government would be more than happy to get its hands on. Unfortunately, the brilliance of these children made them volatile, often resulting in their becoming isolated from others of their age group, a key resource of solidarity for young adolescents. This caveat, when coupled with a lack of familial infrastructure, a matter that was equally damaging whether self-induced or pre-existing, inaugurated an environment which bolstered them to take actions deemed unacceptable to the bureaucracy. Security’s paramount goal was after all containment, and if these assets could not be contained, then the threat they’d pose would be more tangible and daunting than the probable benefits of their gifts._

_It seemed to the ordinary eye a cold method, but it was a fundamental requirement of the intelligence field. The U.S government knew this. SHIELD knew this too._

_Daisy’s stunt had made national television – all those terrible reports about the drones. Damn. The media were forbidden from releasing her name, but even so, how could the government just let her walk away without repercussions?_

_The truth was that they couldn’t. The Chinese had a saying: paper cannot contain fire. Eventually, everything will see the light of day._

_So she had to go deeper, erase herself from the surface of modern civilization and go down somewhere no sun would ever reach, and bury herself under layer upon layers of lies that she must carry for the rest of her life._

_All things considered, Daisy was lucky. Compared to others who had been in her shoes, she got off easy._

_“So, what will it be?”_

_“Skye. I am Skye.”_

_Even as her hands shook and her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears, she never bowed. Her own government was up to ‘shady shit’ and the people deserved to know, and for that she would remain eternally unapologetic._

_“Skye what?”_

_“Just Skye.” I will not be stopped. I will be free. Maybe not today. But one day._

_Melinda covered the hand resting on her shoulder with her own. Phil could tell, she was proud of Daisy. By God, they both were. So proud._

“Phil?” Audrey prompted, snapping him out of his memories.

He bit down on his lips. “It’s classified.”

If another man had told her that he had a child she didn’t know about and then proceeded to refuse elaboration, she would not stand for it. That’s the type of “horseshit” (as her Aunt Polly often used) that she had been taught by her Texan mother, aunts and sisters to slap off a man’s face before he even contemplated using it to hoodwink her.  

She didn’t want to believe Phil, didn’t want his exhausted sincerity to tug at her strings in all the ways that made her love him more, but she did. There had been a spark in those baby blues that shone through his weary outer shell, a warm kind of pride that told her that Phil Coulson had loved deeply and unregrettingly.

Oh, but it was clear to Audrey, even then, that she would never be part of his child’s life. Whatever had happened, it was a part of Phil she couldn’t touch, a part that she wasn’t even sure Phil himself was still tethered to. She could tell, from the calmness he forced upon himself and the wavering smile he wore, that the disconnect killed him more than he was willing to admit.

“She’s doing well. I see her, from time to time. I’m sorry,” Phil struggled. “But I can’t tell you more.”

_“Goddamn Coulson,” Talbot said as he slammed door behind him. “What the hell is wrong with you lot? And May, what – I can’t even.”_

_Coincidentally, years later, when the ‘treacherous’ ‘sordid’ and ‘unbelievable’ affair between Skye and Hydra Agent Grant Ward exploded into a logistical catastrophe, Talbot – promoted to General - repeated the exact same words as he said then._

_“I’m part of this system too, alright? I know it’s hard, but damn it, if you had just done your jobs as mom and dad and paid more attention to your kid, none of this what’ve happened.”_

“Phil.” 

Something he recalled made him flinch. Looking into his eyes, Audrey could almost read the stories in his past.  

She reached out to him, grasping his hand in hers and pulled herself forward so she stood between his knees at the foot of their bed. With a sigh, she pressed a kiss against his forehead and wrapped her arms around him. Needing no further hoaxing, he fell against her chest, sinking into her embrace and shedding the fight from his tired limps. She knew quite assuredly that he was here, in her arms, because he needed to be, because a man like Phil needed stability, security and the gentle comfort of music to dissuade him from jumping into the dark well of his past, searching the redemption for his mistakes and drowning himself in the process.

She was his lifeguard, his lighthouse, his ring-buoy, and she was happy to be. His past, she would never ask him to forget, because his past was his anchor. It made him who he was; it gave him substance. It shaped the paradigm of his philosophy and calibrated the north of his moral compass. Without it, he would be lost, like an amnesiac drifting through the sea of constant danger. 

“I owe you so much.” Phil looked up at her, his hands spanning her waist clung desperately to her sweater, and he was so sorry. “You deserve more than this. Why do you even trust me?”

“Because I know you, Phil. You’re a good man. Do you hear? A good man.” She loved him. She loved him so much.   

Audrey chewed on her bottom lip. Her heart gave a little flutter as she fought the growing impulse. She shouldn’t. Not now. It was not the right time.

“What? What is it?” Wrapping her hands in his, he stared up at her earnestly. _Damn, why did he have to be so perceptive?_

No matter how hard Audrey tried, she couldn’t hold on. She had to ask, because really, how could she not? “What about…her mother?”

Another pause. His eyes seemed to glaze over, and much to her surprise, he actually smiled.

 

_“You are not taking her out on the boat.”_

_“Oh come on, Mel!” Phil groaned, bouncing their baby on his hip. “Daisy is so excited, and she looks superb, don’t you baby girl?”_

_The two year old waved her hands to show off her new outfit: shiny rain-boots, bright yellow lifejacket, a little blue fisherman’s hat. She was the cutest thing to ever grace planet Earth._

_The moms at their local day-care thought Melinda had the best sense of style, but little did they know it was Phil who picked out their daughter’s outfits every day._

_Though, she drew the line at the turkey onesie for Thanksgiving dinner. (Okay, it was adorable and funny, but the onesie was thirty-four dollars! Onesie!!)._

_“I’m so glad we had a girl. The boy’s section doesn’t nearly have as much variety,” Phil mused one morning when he was feeling particularly good about the skirt and jacket combo he had put together._

_Mel had smirked into her tea and teased, “See, you’re laughing now, but one day she’s gonna ask for a vespa, steal your scotch and date the buffest boy in her grade.”_

_That had put an effective damper on Phil’s rainbows and sunshine. “Do parents still send their daughters to nunneries? Is that still a thing? Actually, never mind that, I’ll ask Blake to do background checks and draft a security detail.”_

_Melinda just rolled her eyes. Phil was intent on going down the checklist of American Dad Stereotypes, and she was having way too much fun to stop him, which brings them to this predicament. Fishing._

_“Poots!! Poots!!” Skye exclaimed enthusiastically, kicking her feet back and forth._

_“Boots, Daisy. Boots.” Melinda corrected. “I never had a lisp as a kid. Did you, Phil?”_

_“No boots, Momma. Poots!” Skye insisted, indignant._

_Phil laughed, “I think she’s just messing with you.”_

_“Margaret Americus, you say it right.” Melinda put on her ‘adult face’, and the toddler shrank back against her father, visibly chastised. It was clear who the disciplinary authority was in this partnership._

_“Aww, is Momma being a meanie, again?” Phil consoled the little darling as she buried her face in his neck and made a weepy noise. It was so obvious Skye was faking it, but she got her dad wrapped in her tiny fingers, and the poor idiot hadn’t a clue that he was doomed for life._

_Suddenly the phone rang. Ugh work, already? It was barely nine o’clock on a Sunday._

_“May.” She answered. “Yes, alright. I’ll be there. Have a car come pick me up in 30? Perfect.”_

_“What is it?” Phil frowned worriedly. Mel saw how his arms instinctively went a little tighter around their daughter._

_“Nothing. Some idiot messed up a retrieval op in Manitoba. Manitoba! What are they teaching them these days? The big bosses want me to wrap it up. It won’t take long.”_

_“So…I’m guess that’s a no to you coming with us?”_

_“Regrettably. But,” Melinda pulled out a picnic basket from under the kitchen island, fully packed and ready for some serious outdoor actions. “Did you really think I’d let you go without being prepared?”_

_Phil grinned, jostling the toddler in his arms, “See, Daisy? Momma can be fun too.” He leaned across the counter and grasped Melinda’s collar to pull her into a kiss. She tasted like tea and mint. “I love you. Go kick ass.”_

_Squealing in protestation that she wasn’t the center of attention anymore, Skye pushed at her parents’ faces._

_“Alright, alright.” Mel chuckled, breaking away from her husband and smooching Daisy against the crown of her hair. “We love you best, Daisy bell. Now, give Momma a kiss before you leave with Daddy.”_

_Skye did as she was told, landing a wet sloppy one on Melinda’s cheek and said, incredibly articulately, “Rain boots.”_

_Phil smirked. “See. Told you she was just messing with you.”_

 

* * *

 

“Her mother and I, we’re not…we’re not together. Things ended between us a long time ago for various reasons, but that’s… classified too.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They buried Phil four days after New York.

Audrey booked an overnight flight to Washington D.C for the ceremony. Despite the large glass of wine, sleep kept its distance, and she sat awake the whole night thinking of him.

A part of her wondered if she’d see _them_ at the funeral, and if she did, would she be prepared? After that conversation, Phil never spoke of his first - first what? Wife, partner, girlfriend? He never specified. But whoever she was, Audrey knew that she was a ‘first’, and that that meant she was important no matter how many years had gone by.

In all honesty, she was glad Phil never brought it up again, not because she was scared of the secrets she would find, but of Phil re-discovering certain parts of himself that he had learned to put down.   

Though some things… some things have a way of coming out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Ready. Aim. Fire!”

_Bang!_

“Ready. Aim. Fire!”

_Bang!_

“Ready. Aim. Fire!”

_Bang!_

Funerals were in general dull affairs, especially if it happened bright and early, first thing on a Monday morning. Nevertheless, if anyone present was still waiting for their coffee to kick in, they were quickly sobered by the three sharp taps being fired into the cobalt atmosphere of the Washington sky.

Audrey felt her heart stop with each shot, and beside her, Pepper Potts laid a comforting hand on her forearm. It should be her mother standing there, or her sisters, but as Agent Romanoff had informed her, the procession would be strictly confidential.

Now, facing the stone visage of the attendees, a throng of eight and forty men and women, Audrey understood why.

Phil Coulson had been a spy ‘til the very end, and these faceless individuals who had gathered here to bear witness to his untimely exodus – with the exception of Tony Stark and Pepper Potts - were to be forgotten as immediately as she looked away.

“I am so sorry, Miss Nathans,” Nick Fury stood before her, his voice stern and quiet, meant for her hears only. If he was as wrecked as she felt, she couldn’t tell. “New York would not be standing had it not been for his efforts. Coulson was…a good man.”

“Yes, he was a good man.” The tears came unbidden, and she felt strangely ashamed of herself when her voice gave away mid-sentence. “And he was my good man.”

Audrey hadn’t realized, until the weight of the 13-fold flag was put in her arms, that  _crying_  was the only thing that made funerals remotely bearable. Going to a funeral is like going to a wedding, meeting strangers was an inevitability, but just as rejoicing in the name of a well-match matrimony united the guests for the moment, in face of loss, tears also washed away their distances.  

Except she was the only one who cried, and to do so alone at a funeral, she couldn’t imagine a lonelier feeling in the world…

…until she heard a quiet noise behind her, the first sound made by any party from SHIELD. Curious, and perhaps drawn to the singular possibility of empathy, Audrey couldn’t help but search out the source. When she turned to look, she found a pair of large brown eyes, red and glassy behind a wall of tears, staring unblinkingly back at her.

They maintained eye contact for only a split second before the young agent looked away. Yet somehow, Audrey just knew.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Daisy.”

“Hm?” They were sitting in porch swing in her backyard, enjoying the breeze and a six pack of beer. She had her head rested against his shoulder, and their fingers laced together. She could tell; it was one of those days when his thoughts were far away.

“My daughter.”

“Oh.” Her interest peaked. “I thought it was classified.” She was glad he was finally opening up about that part of his life, but if it was going to get him into trouble, she’d rather he didn’t.

“I know, but that’s just what we – what I called her. It’s not really her name.” Phil stared down at his beer and gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “I wasn’t a very good father.” 

“Oh Phil,” She tilted his chin towards her and gazed upon his guilty, mirthless expression with soft sincerity. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It is true.”

“Phil, believe me I know some men aren’t meant to be fathers, but you’re not one of those men.”

The tension around his temple eased a fraction, and he smiled, hugging her close, “Maybe someday I’ll get a second chance to do it right.”

A warmth blossomed inside her, and she burrowed herself against his chest. Wearing a hopeful grin, she closed her eyes and sighed, “Of course you will. I’m sure of it.”

Audrey prayed, that if ‘Daisy’ was anything like her dad that they would find other each again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The apple didn’t fall very far from the tree, so it would seem.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_“No Mel stop! It’s going to blow!”_

She discovered him sitting on the balcony terrace in the middle of the night, knees drawn to his chin, his Captain America shirt glowing comically in the dark.  

“Phil. Do you want to come back inside?” She knelt down beside him, draping the towel around his shoulders. The summer air was warm, but his skin felt clammy to the touch. The edge of his shirt was damp from cold sweat.

He had waken up screaming the name.

_“Mel!”_

Mel. Or Mal. She couldn’t really tell.

“Stay with me Audrey. Please.” The way he looked at her then – all pleading and broken, miserable and a tad unhinged, it broke her heart. His shallow breaths and fragile silence left her speechless and weak, fearing to prod the origin of his haunting dreams. 

“Bahrain. February 2001. I lost a friend that day. My partner.”

 

_His palm hurt from pounding on the door so loud, but the door didn’t give, and neither did his wife. She had locked herself in the guestroom for three days, refusing to eat or speak. If he hadn’t known there was a pitcher of water inside, he’d break down the door this instant just to make sure she hadn’t committed suicide by dehydration._

_This past month, ever since medical cleared her charts and sent her home for 'recuperation', she hasn't been herself. Physically, Bahrain did not leave much of a mark, but mentally....she wasn't the same. Every time he tried to get her to talk to him, she'd only withdrawn further, denying all suggestions that anything was amiss with her. Quite frankly, it had been terrifying, watching her deteriorate, spiraling out of control. He didn't know what he should do - he'd thought that if he left her alone, eventually she'd work it out..._

_Whatever rock bottom had been waiting for Melinda, there was no denying that she has officially landed on it._

 

_“Mel –”_

_“Oh for the love of god, just LEAVE ME ALONE!!” Her scream echoed from within, hoarse and frantic._

_“I am your partner and your husband. I made vows and I remember them. I will never leave –”_

_“You’re not my partner anymore, Phil! I quit operations! And you’re not my husband, not in SHIELD records, not in the eyes of the law. This isn’t even a real marriage!”_

_This wasn’t her talking. This was Bahrain and whatever trauma that crippled his resilient Melinda. This wasn’t her. She would never – she wouldn’t…_

_“I love you.” He pleaded, resolve breaking, voice cracking. “I love you, Melinda. You know that, right?”_

_His beseeching was met with cold silence, and for second he thought she’d return back to the non-responsive mode when she spoke suddenly in a calm, conclusive tone, barely above a whisper._

_“I’m sorry that you do.”_

_His head dropped to the plank of the door with a thud, and he had to steady himself against its frame. He could feel the air freezing into sheets of ice in his lungs, and he couldn’t breathe._

_“You don’t – you don’t mean that. Please, Mel, tell me you don’t mean that._ _Mel, please…”_

_Ten years wasn’t enough. He didn’t sign up for ten years - this wasn’t some deal with the devil - he had planned for eternity! He wanted forever, with her, with Daisy. Oh Lord, Daisy, what was he going to tell her? She was at ski camp – she’ll be back tomorrow._

_“I need you, Mel. Daisy needs you. We can’t –” He cried. Finally, he cried._

_“Go, Phil.” Her voice sounded close, as if she was right on the other side of this door. If he could reach through solids, he’d be able to touch her, to cling onto what was left of his other half and beg her not to do this. But he couldn’t. Even if he could kick down this door, there were still walls that he couldn’t breech. The battle would be lost before it even begun._

_No amount of tears was going to convince Melinda to change her mind._

_“Just go.”_

 

Audrey held him while he sobbed into the towel, and when he choked out ‘I’m sorry’, she got the distinctive impression it was not directed towards her, so she said nothing and held on tighter.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, they were the only two who lingered before Phil’s grave after all the guests had gone.

Audrey would not have met both of them, had she not opened her purse in the cab and found the vintage Captain America card tucked away between her driver’s license and visa. She had purchased it months before, and it was meant to be a surprise.

Even in death, she decided Phil would be happier if he knew that he now had the complete set.

“Could you just give me a minute? I’ll be right back.” She apologized to the driver, and swiftly made her way to the cemetery.

From the back of their heads, they could’ve been mistaken for sisters. ‘Daisy’ was just a smidgen taller, a little curvier, and her hair a shade paler, curling at the ends. Compared to the woman standing next to her, she was…soft. Her shoulders were not as rigid, her spine not as stiff, and the spacing between her parted feet not so… military.

There was a lethality in her mother’s limps that she simply didn’t possess, though it was evident that such demeanor was a quality she strived to have.

Black leather jackets, black pants, and high-heeled boots - she appeared to be in every manner her mother’s daughter, and together they were Phil’s best kept secret.

Audrey felt privileged to have been the subject of his confidence, to have him share the most unspeakable part of his history. She understood now, in the aftermath of everything that had happened, who Mel really was and how unchangeably Phil had loved her. Even more, she understood that the love he bore for his Mel probably persisted till his dying breath, and that the last person he thought of may very well not have been herself.

Surprisingly, she was okay with that. Envious, yes, but not maliciously.

Her steps slowed, and she paused beside an oak tree. There was no denying it; the moment was too private, too intimate, despite the lack of physical tells. She felt a blush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks, as if she had inadvertently intruded on a stranger’s funeral.

Even though it was a silly notion, she still felt rude observing them like this.  

But apparently, Nick Fury had no such qualms. He appeared rather… in a rush. “Agent May, a word please. Agent Skye, if you’ll excuse us.”

“Yes sir.”

“Of course sir.”  

There was no one around, not even the groundskeeper, and Audrey would’ve thought without the scrutiny of their colleagues ( _because dear god, they’re **all**  spies, all three of them!!_) they would at least bear a slight resemblance to normalcy.

But they did not. If they grieved, it was all internal.

The mother and daughter shared a meaningful look, and then, without a kiss or hug or even a comforting touch, May side-stepped Skye and walked away.

 

* * *

 

 

When Audrey finally found the guts to approach her, Daisy didn’t seem surprised. She probably knew all along that Audrey had been standing there, which meant that her mother definitely knew. It was a chilling idea. 

Before New York, Audrey had thought of raising the prospect of meeting Daisy to Phil on so many different occasions. Now that they were standing face to face with each other, she was ironically at loss of what to say.

Did Daisy know that Audrey knew who she was?

“Agent Coulson loved you, ma’am. Very much. I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”

Just like that, the girl was gone.

And yes, thought Audrey, she definitely knew.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In front of Phil Coulson’s grave, someone had left a single branch of white rose, and Audrey was okay with that too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


	3. The One Who Got Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At any given moment in time, Philip Coulson occupied one of two planes of existence, that of a solitary secret agent with a cellist lady friend from Portland, or that of a divorced, middle-aged father who still dreamt of the dark, haunted eyes of his ex-wife on a semi-regular basis.
> 
> During his life, he rarely discussed the former because it was personal, and never discussed the latter because it was classified.
> 
> Upon his death, however, certain truths come to light, while other secrets are simultaneously built and buried.

 

“Melinda.”

She was, in his sincerest opinion, the loveliest creature he had ever beheld.

Which was exactly what he told her.

“You’re pretty.”

Problem was, Phil was doped up on a shit ton of morphine, and it kind of messed with his brain. Granted, this all happened before the time of internet and Youtube videos, but a high-as-a-kite Phil Coulson was definitely a vine-worthy Phil Coulson. If they had all been born a generation later, someone would’ve been sure to video him on their phone as record-keeping for all eternity.

As it was, the room full of cadets snickered at the expense of Melinda May, who was growing increasingly red in the face the more Phil babbled. Apparently, once the dam opened, there was no stopping the torrent of uninhibited confessions pouring out of that drug-happy boy. 

“Are you – are you an angel? I died, didn’t I? I dead.”

I dead. How eloquent.

“Oh my god, Mel, you’re blushing!!” Maria all but cackled.

Melinda shot her friend and roommate a look that was the silent version of "go straight to hell".

It was a well-known fact that Phil Coulson was the biggest idiot/dork of the entering class of 1987. There were one hundred and two of them left, the final candidates for this round of recruits. The youngest of the bunch were sixteen (like Maria) and the oldest twenty four (like Blake). Phil, a year younger than Melinda herself, fell exactly in between the boundaries. As was his standing in terms of age ranking, average was exactly the term to describe him in every other aspect as well.

The cadets in their class fell into two general categories: the high-achievers and the special-talents. Victoria Hand was a prime example of the first, perfect scores in almost every category except interpersonal skills. Quen Chen, on the other hand, had an unremarkable resume all together, but the guy was fluent in twelve languages, including Arabic, Hindi and Mandarin. (The SHEILD base in Hong Kong snatched him up pretty quick after graduation.)

Phil Coulson was neither of those things. In the words of their admissions officer, he was unexceptional in every way, and that was true. Not the fastest runner, nor the sharpest shooter, nor the most convincing actor, nor a language specialist, nor…anything.

But, if the cadets were rated in terms of spirit and unwavering optimism, well, Phil would take the lead. There was no question about that. Though, around Operations, the lot of them was considered fresh meat – being the new kids and all - so excellence in attitude didn’t win you any favours with older cadets, especially if one paraded around with geeky Captain America t-shirts. 

It was only the second month, and the nurses down at medicals already knew Phil by his first name. Usually, it was minor scrapes and bleeds from their rough training routines and sparring sessions, but this time it was because he got hit by a car while out picking up the pizza they ordered.

Yeah.

Well okay, in the process he saved a five-year-old from certain death, so Melinda was hard-pressed not to give him some credit for his “bravery” and “heroism”. Words of their commanding officer, by the way, not hers. Pfff, as if she would ever think Phil Coulson the heroic type. Phil was an idiot.

Not a bad-looking idiot though, even with a leg in a cast and a bruised left jaw.

Maria wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, as if she knew exactly what her friend was thinking. Melinda glared back. Oh shut up Maria.

Melinda May didn’t do crushes, and she certainly didn’t do crushes on the likes of idiot Coulson. Coulson with his geekiness, puppy-dog eyes, and boyish grin -

Oh, shut up.

“Melinda, you’re so pretty…hoooowww? Whyyy? And you fighttt good. I saw you kick Blake’s ass – so cool. Sooo…”

The others snickered louder, and even Blake rolled his eyes in good humour, because Phil spoke the truth. Though, that didn’t stop Melinda from boiling silently. To her left, Maria looked like she was going to burst from holding in her laughter. In the weeks to come, she’d be writing Mel+Phil xoxoxo in all of Melinda’s binders. Maria was sixteen, so one would have to forgive her for her antics, which thankfully she grew out of. Nevertheless, her proclivity for inappropriate doodling was the reason Phil didn’t believe her decades  later when she denied drawing a ‘poo with spikes’ on a SHIELD agent’s evaluation report.    

“Alright, alright,” Felix Blake said. “Let’s go. Phil’s gonna be a-okay, and I’m sure they’ll kick us out soon. But Mel, if you wanna stay,” he paused, grinning, “ya know, so you and Phil can proclaim your love for each other, I’m sure the Head Nurse would turn a blind eye.” 

Melinda came so close to slapping him up the black of his head, but Victoria interrupted first. “Oh lay off it, Blake. Come on, our lecture is about to start soon.”

Everyone thought Vickie – she hated that name – was a kill-joy, but Melinda thought she was okay.

“Hey, has anyone seen –” Quan stuck his head through the door of the infirmary, and stopped when he saw them. “Oh, there you are.”

“What’s up, Chen?”

“The Assignment is posted. Just thought you wanted to know. I’ve got a copy here.”

‘The Assignment’ was the dreaded pairing decision: all the cadets were assigned a partner in their first year, an arrangement which they had no say in whatsoever. At the end of the year, the option would be open to switch, but for 365 days, you’d be stuck with that person.

Personally, Melinda thought that all of this was a test for adaptiveness and perseverance, or at least some form of torture designed to heighten their pain tolerance.... Already, she could see Victoria starting to fret.

The group of them rushed towards the Asian boy, shoving each other aside to get a look at the list in his hand.

Maria groaned when she saw her partner’s name, “Who’s Carpowski?”

Victoria ended up with Quan, which was a relief, because Quan was the quiet, no-trouble type, and Victoria the strong and silent. It was bound to be a pretty wordless relationship, but at least one without too much prospects of violence.

Melinda followed the list with her finger until she found her own name. Before she could even read her partner’s, Blake and Maria began to whistle like wolves.

“Oh look, you got Phil!”

Blake took her by the shoulders, and sighed dramatically, “This is meant to be, Mel, you have to admit it.”

Philip Coulson.

The commanders had assigned her the Captain-America-obsessed idiot. Just fantastic.

She turned, gazing over her shoulder at the boy with the swollen jaw and broken leg, and found him staring at her with those ridiculously green eyes, all doped up on morphine and god-knows-what.

“We gonnnn be parn’ers, Melinda?”

No, her heart didn’t flutter, her knees didn’t feel weak. In fact she was still kind of annoyed, but she also knew that she had gotten someone who was willing to put down his life for the right reasons, and _that_ – that was worth more than some score on a sheet of paper.

“Yeah Phil,” she nodded. “We are, and we’re going to be alright.”

 

* * *

 

When Phil died, Maria finally gave Mel her honest opinion.

“Fury is giving the eulogy, which is fine, but Phil loved you best, and he’d want it to be you.” 

 

* * *

 

And in the end, Melinda was honest too.

“I can’t.”

_I’d cry._

 

* * *

 

May squinted her eyes against the bright glare of the sun behind the mountainous terrain. In front of her, the grey cinderblock entrance of The Guesthouse awaited her.

“Are you ready?”

Nick Fury stepped down from the jet, the wind from the engine whipping at his leather coat.

Melinda had been in the game for a very long time. She gave twenty odd years of her life to this organization, and like all good soldiers, she vowed to serve till the very end, however bitter than end may be. For her, SHIELD had always been the power that took, a black hole that sucked in secrets and people into its many folds of hidden facilities and intricate bureaucracy. It took from May a husband, a daughter, a life that she had once dreamed to have with the love of her life, and the woman she thought she could have been. Never in her wildest dreams did she think that one day SHIELD would actively _give_ something back.

And yet, here she was, eleven years since Bahrain, about to see her dead ex-husband be brought back to life.

The Guesthouse was not like the other SHIELD facilities. Not quite as shiny and screaming of investor’s money and high tech gadgets as The Hub, nor so bureaucratic and grand as The Triskelion. If anything, it reminded May of The Cube or The Fridge, prisons for condemned individuals and artifacts too dangerous to be let out into the world.

The hallways were long and narrow, with doors lining both sides labelled with letters and numbers that didn’t seem to follow any sense of logic. Behind one of these doors, Phil would be waiting for her, or what was left of him anyway…    

May didn’t want to think about what she would find when Fury eventually led her to their destination. Phil Coulson died on the Hellicarrier – Skye said so herself. She told her mother in enough details the exact spot where her father was killed, and described with so much hate and spite the smear of his blood against the walls.   

 _He’s dead._ Skye had sobbed out the minute May opened the door. Against protocol, the girl had requested that she be the one to break the news to her mother, and well...

Initially there had been a speech planned and everything – but one look at May and all the composure Skye had worked up in the elevator went spiralling down the mental drain.

Her duffle bag landed on the door mat with a muffled thud, and she stepped across the threshold and buried her face into her mother's shoulder. May was shorter than Skye by quite a margin, especially out of her heels, so the girl had to stoop down awkwardly. Still, it was only when her mother’s arms came tightly around her that she truly felt safe in days.

 _爸爸死了_ _._

Skye’s Chinese was subpar on her best days, but somehow those words were spoken with perfect pronunciation, as if the American half of her had disappeared, leaving her with parts of herself she did not know how to handle…

…and a parent who was almost a stranger.

 _妈_ _,_ Skye had sobbed, and May felt her heart crumble. She let the door swing shut behind them, and held on to the girl with all the longing and desperation that she had accumulated over the years, knowing that she could no longer afford to let go, for they were to each other all they had left in the world.  

May couldn’t explain, even if anyone asked, how she felt when she learned of the news. Or if she felt anything at all.

Letting Phil walk away after Bahrain was a logical decision. What she had done -- there were parts of her that believed with time, logic would’ve eventually allowed her to forgive herself, but what she had _become –_ that was an entirely different matter altogether.

Truth was, in that building where she killed those men and that little girl, she felt her world shift, and it didn’t right itself even after the dust had settled.

May had learnt to live with it, this off-kilter life, but she didn’t want this for those she loved the most. Daisy deserved everything Phil and Melinda had promised: a stable home, two loving parents, a normal childhood, a well-rounded education… On her maternal duties, there was no denying that Melinda dropped the ball, and that had forced Phil to pick up her slacks, pieces of their family that eventually became too much for him too.

Now, he was gone, and the axis of May’s world once again went out of alignment. She would have to learn, as Phil once did, to be enough to fill the void in the other’s absence, and she realized that this meant she didn’t have time to wallow and withdraw. As far as May was concerned, Phil was dead. It was a truth she had to, in quick time, come to terms with. This wasn’t Bahrain – though somehow it still felt just as raw – because back then Daisy had Phil, and May could afford to let go. But now Phil was dead, and she was all Skye had left.

Or not, as it happened.

 

It’s been an unusual four days. 

 

If Melinda was the kind to believe in the supernatural, she’d know exactly how fast things can go to straight to hell. Somehow this all seemed like a deal with the devil.

“Why me?” May finally asked, just as Fury entered the final authorization code to a heavily restricted area. “You could have asked anyone.”

Fury turned to her, and May knew the look he cast down was full of reproach, because he always expected the best and most out of her. Even to her own ears, she sounded like a petulant child complaining about her chores, but she didn’t care. This was cruel of them. To make her come to this place and do what she was about to do.

“Be reasonable, Melinda. It had to be you.”

“Why?”

“Because.” The director leaned into the retinal scan and sighed as if her reluctance to cooperate was all very draining.

 _Well fuck him_ , thought Melinda, and the glare she served her boss made sure he knew that she didn’t give a single crap about how he felt. Phil was not _his_ ex-husband and the father of _his_ daughter.

The heavy double doors slid open with a hiss, and May felt her breath freeze in her throat. Stark and cold fluorescent light emanated from a large bay window that she knew would look down into an operating room.

Maria’s tall willowy figure stood against the light, her shadow casting long and ghostly along the linoleum floor. When she turned, there was not a smile nor a frown on her perfectly schooled façade, and Melinda thought with weary nostalgia that they were all so far gone from their former selves.

The Deputy Director said nothing, but her even stare beckoned May closer, and as she stepped out from the shadow and into the light of the operating room, May closed her eyes, stealing one more moment of ignorance.

“A bit different from our days,” mumbled Maria, attempting to ease the tension, but May could only hear the static in her ear and the rapid thumping of her heart.

_This is unreal._

SHIELD was capable of a plenty of things, beyond the scope of public awareness. After last week, the confirmation of extraterrestrial lifeforms destroyed many long-standing false-believes and opened the world’s eyes to many things the governing bodies felt necessary to withhold from them, but this…

There was no word for it.  

A horrified gasp threatened to escape past her lips, but May swallowed it. She thought after everything, she had just about seen and done it all, the worst of the worst.

In Bahrain, she had murdered a girl of ten, nearly the same age as her own, and as the child lay dying in her arms, Melinda thought that that had been the worst moment in her life. Her hands felt too dirty to even cradle the girl’s lifeless body. Nothing could possibly be worse.

How she hated to be wrong.

Phil laid on a cold stainless slab, a cloth over his hips, a dark jagged cut down his chest, and his skull… nowhere to be seen.

And if this had been all, if he had simply laid limp while the robotics and lasers did their business, like a lab rat dissected for science’s gain, then perhaps Melinda could stomach it more.

But Phil wasn’t dead; he wasn’t even unconscious. Through the glass, Melinda could hear his anguished begging.

_“Please, let me die.”_

For a moment, she thought she was going to be sick.

“ _Melinda! Melinda – help me!”_

Her hand smacked against the window before she could stop herself, and her palm – clammy with cold sweat – slid down the window as she tried to steady herself. It was uncommon for her to be hit with a boast of vertigo, but even The Cavalry had her limits.

A large but gentle hand landed on her shoulder, steadying the its quaking and offering her a comforting squeeze. “Agent May, you asked me why I chose you. Well, I didn’t choose you. Phil did.” 

 

* * *

 

They were married on a Thursday, at a bar in a small town in the middle of nowhere.

Their magistrate was their bartender, and their witness was a group of college kids on a road trip to Vancouver. 

There was no engagement. They were sitting side by side at the empty bar, nursing their second round of drinks when Phil proposed, out of the blue.

Melinda remembered that it was 3:23 in the afternoon. Pacific Time. 

"May - Melinda?" He had not sounded nervous, as far as she could recall, but when she thought back on it, there had been something different in his voice. Excitement, she would logically deduce, but a part of her believed that it had been hope.

"Hmm..." She had grunted noncommittally into her beer. The mission had been a bitch (no extraction plan, how fucking typical of HQ), and she was ready to hit the hay.

Phil set down his beer, covering her left hand with his right, and asked.

"Marry me?"

Melinda had stared at him for a long, terrifying moment. They could both feel the bartender eyeing them from the other end of the counter, clearly interested. The college kids had even less tact, or perhaps they just didn’t care that it was rude to stare so openly.

"Now?" Melinda finally replied, and from the way Phil had pulled back, she knew that was not the answer he’d been expecting.

“Uh – well – I – if you’d like.”

They both knew that the two of them could never stand face to face at the altar nor have their names appear on a sheet of legal paper in city hall. A relationship like theirs could never go on public record, and their superiors would never sanction their union. SHIELD had stricter rules about fraternization in the old days, and seeing how the two of them turned out, sometimes Melinda is tempted to think that perhaps the old system had been right.

Theirs was a dangerous life, and sentiment made things messy where they could not afford it.

Still, Phil wanted to do something special, so Melinda improvised. She held his hand and they bowed thrice. Once to the universe (instead of God, since neither of them were religious); next, to the picture of Phil’s mother which he kept in his wallet; and finally to each other.

Phil was confused, but Melinda had grinned at him and said, “just go with it. Trust me.”

And he did.

The barkeep poured them both a finger of scotch, and they drank it with linked arms to “seal the deal”.

“Did you know that grooms kissed brides at their wedding because Romans exchanged kisses to signify the completion of contracts?” Phil was always such a nerd.

“Oh shut up and kiss me.”  

There were no rings and no dress. Melinda was in a black tank top and a pair of army-green kakis, and Phil’s white button up had a lost a button or three during the op. There were no vows - none that could be said aloud anyway – but when Melinda stared into his eyes, she knew his heart, and he hers, and that was enough for the two of them.

They danced to Elvis’s _I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You_ playing in the juke box, and it was perfect.

Their wedding night was spent at the nearest motel, a seedy looking place if they were honest, and they’d both been too tired to do anything other than curl around each other under the covers, foreheads pressed together whilst wearing matching grins. 

They fell asleep giggling like fools.

(Maria was pissed she didn’t get to be the Maid of Honour.)

 

* * *

 

“Make them stop! Please, Melinda, make them stop!!”

_Just reassure him, Agent May. Try to reduce his stress level. It will make the memory implanting process easier._

“Let me die, just let me die!!”

The right thing would’ve been to destroy the machines and let him go. A part of her wanted to do exactly that - to end his suffering and let Death take him under its wings. Another part of her though, a darker more selfish part, wanted to believe Fury and to hope that Phil was still here, only lost in the delirium. And if the doctors could keep him, could _save him,_ how could she tell them to stop? How could she ask them to end the life, other than Skye’s, most precious to her in the world?

She couldn’t.

She _couldn’t._

_Agent May. Do not forget your objective._

“Understood, sir.”

Her hand trembled when she reached out to him, and she was wrecked with guilt. This was an act of betrayal. No matter how she justified it, there was no denying that she was acting against his will and was taking from – or at least assisted in taking from him – his autonomy over his own person.  Fingers laced with his, Melinda squeezed his hand, but Phil did not respond in kind.

“Phil, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She whispered at him, but he didn’t seem to hear her. With a jolt, she suddenly realized that in doing this, she had already lost him. She knew Phil better than anyone, and if he was to regain his memory, she knew he would never forgive her.

Which is fine, because she certainly would never forgive herself.

 

* * *

 

“ _Wise men s-say…only fools rush in_ -”

No one in the OR questioned her singing or her song of choice, and they pretended not to notice when her voice broke, and her eyes fell shut against the tears that slipped through her lashes.

 

* * *

 

For 72 hours after surgery, they kept him under so that his implanted memories could have time to take root during the induced coma.

SHIELD had done it. They’d given him back his life.

The irony of the situation was, the life that Melinda had been asked – _forced –_ to save was the very same one that she now must make plans to take away.

The Tahiti file laid open on her lap, every detail committed to memory. In front of her, her completed assessment report was ready to be sent to Fury. They wanted to put Phil back out into the field, promote him to be the commander of his own special taskforce, a mobile command unit. Maria had already shown her the plane: The Bus, they called it.

It was a very nice plane; Phil would love it.

Giving the report one last glance over, she clicked send and closed her laptop.

15:17 her watch read. Standing up, Melinda made her way over to the bed where Phil laid unconscious. Gently, she smoothed her hand over his hair. It was hard to imagine that his skull had been removed; there was hardly even any visible redness along the incision. He would never know what had been done to him, and she prayed that it stayed that way, because she couldn’t lose him, not again.

“I’m sorry, Phil. I am.” She whispered against his cheek. “But I couldn’t let you go. Please understand…”

A soft cough came from the doorway. Maria stood there with her hands crossed behind her back. “Almost time to go.” She took care not to mention the tender moment she intruded on.

“I know,” Mel nodded, straightening up. “I sent the report to the director. I cc-ed you. Essentially there are four components needed: someone who could repair his body, a technician who could reprogram his brain, and two specialists to handle him if it ever came to that.”

A flash of guilt danced across Maria’s eyes. “Melinda, we’d never ask –“

“You already have. I know Fury was hoping one of those specialists could be me, that’s why he brought me on, but I can’t. In any case, Phil would never ask his ex-wife to be on his team.”

“Someone on the team would need to be in know.”

“I think I have a fairly good idea who Phil might ask to be the pilot. Whoever it is, I’ll will be corresponding with them, and I will be the one to make the final call. If it has to be done, I’ll be the one to do it. Fury promised me.”

Melinda confronted Maria’s gaze unflinchingly. She knew that Maria didn’t believe her, but she countered her friend’s disbelief with indifference nevertheless. At this point, she didn’t care about Maria or Fury or any of SHIELD’s plans.  

It goes without saying that she could never pull the trigger on Phil, but if she had handed the gun to someone else, then surely they would. She hoped that if Fury allowed her to be the one to handle the final step then she’d had a chance to sneak Phil away before SHIELD can put him down like a rabid dog.  She could hide him, and she would take care of him. He didn’t want this – this wasn’t his choice. She made it for him – for herself, really – and she would be the one to assume responsibility for it. She couldn’t abandon him.

Not again.

She won’t. 

Melinda was aware that Maria knew her all too well, and being Deputy Director, she would uphold the rules as it was her duty to do so. Mel didn’t blame her friend, but if Maria tried – if _anyone_ tried – to put a bullet in Phil Coulson, Melinda was prepared to live up to the name they gave her and tear them apart limb by limb before she’d allow any harm to come to him.

“When he wakes up, someone should remind him to call Audrey Nathans.”  

“I don’t understand,” Maria frowned.  

“Phil loves her, and he should have someone in his life who isn’t muddling with his brain and planning his murder behind his back.”

With that, Melinda walked away.

 

* * *

 

Exactly a week since his death, at 1700 h, Phil Coulson opened his eyes and found himself slouched on a flight seat, inside a SHIELD issued jet.  Once the haziness of sleep faded, he recalled in fondness the warm sunshine of French Polynesia and a renewed excitement to finally return to work. 

The flight attendant arrived with a warm towel and a glass of water. “Agent Coulson, we’ll be arriving at D.C shortly. Is there anything you need?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, taking the towel and pressing it to his face.

“Welcome back, sir.”

“Thanks - actually, did someone call my wife to let her know?”

The flight attendant did a double take in surprise, “Your wife, sir? Did you mean, Miss Nathans?”

No, no he did not.

God, what was he thinking? He didn’t have a wife anymore, and according to SHIELD, he never did.   

“Oh y-yeah. That’s what I meant, but never mind. It’s probably not advisable.”  

“No, in fact, Director Fury left orders specifically stating that a reunion with Miss Nathans would be most encouraged during your recuperation.”

“Isn’t this considered classified?”

“Sir, in the words of the Director, you earned it. He also suggests a lot of flowers and excessive grovelling.”

Phil chuckled. Sounds like Fury’s brand of jackass-ery and sarcasm.    

Gazing out the window, Phil watched the sun set in the west. There was a strange sort of wistfulness lulling inside him, one which he couldn’t explain. As he leaned back in his seat, buckling himself in for the descent, he thought that he could hear Elvis somewhere in his distant memory.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for long wait, it's finally done!! I'm glad to finally put this to an end. The bowing three time thing is a old Chinese wedding ceremony no longer in practice.


End file.
